THE SERVANT-GIRL'S SONG
DUSTER, dust away, my friend,
Never will your dusting end.

I dust it off, and back it falls;
The chimneys smear it on the walls.

Beat, hands, beat the books,
Whatnots, flower-pots, pegs, and hooks,

Wardrobes, dressing-tables, shelves,
Beds where the kittens coil themselves;

And, curtains, out of you I shake
The dust your muslin meshes take;

And, cloaks and petticoats, I beat
The dust you bring in from the street.

Duster, dust away, my friend,
Never will your dusting end.

Take the powder off that lingers
Upon my hair, and rough, red fingers;

And keep the dust out of my teeth,
Which I can feel it grate beneath;

And take it, too, out of my ears,
And from my eye-balls that it blears.

But do not let it waft and blow
Into my dreams it dirties so;

And keep it from the sun-beam spread,
When I awaken, on my bed;

And from bare statues, and from urns,
Knicknacks, picture-frames, and ferns,

And flowers, and vases; and we must
Be very careful when we dust

Embroidered robes, and precious laces;
Rubies and pearls in jewel-cases;

And gently round the room I tread
Where mistress dozes, ill in bed;

And now the window panes I clout.
Dust on the highroad blows about ...

And in the churchyard too, no doubt.

Duster, dust away, my friend,
Never will your dusting end.

translated by Jethro Bithell